


A Step Beyond Logic

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drama, Gen, Major character death with a happy ending, Philosophizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 12:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11357634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: When Gadreel kills Kevin, it triggers a series of personal losses and grief that devastates Dean. He continues to hunt, but travels a path of moral ambiguity, self-searching, and analysis that ultimately leads him to take drastic action. Working with Rowena, Dean confronts God (Chuck) and seeks to violently reshape the world on a scale that even the Winchesters have never attempted before.





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/109761/109761_original.jpg)

“No!” yelled Dean, unsuccessfully straining every muscle in a desperate effort to move.

He fought Sam's—no, that wasn't Sam, it was not his brother standing there, but duplicitous _Gadreel_ \--Gadreel's angelic force as it kept him firmly pinned against one of the bunker's marble columns. Kevin stood before Sam, his face confused as he looked between the Winchesters, clearly realizing something was wrong but unsure as to what it was. Dean flexed every muscle, but couldn't budge from his position. He could only stand and watch.

Watch how Sam's big hand spread wide to land heavily on Kevin's short black hair.

Watch as Kevin's jaw dropped in shock and his body trembled under that terrible touch.

Watch his eye sockets blister and scorch, gouts of flame consuming those soft, dark orbs.

Watch Gadreel's grace burn Kevin's life out of his body, until brilliant blueish-white light erupted from his empty eye sockets and open mouth; a light so powerful it forced Dean to look away or else risk blindness himself.

Watch as, that dread light now extinguished, Kevin's empty husk slumped to the library's cold tile floor, his head lolling to face Dean full on; his blackened, gaping sockets forever imprinted in Dean's mind, horribly paired with Kevin's soft mouth, lax lips looking like he was about to ask a question even now.

Dean barely registered Sam—Gadreel—departing the bunker. Released from his invisible bonds, he ran to Kevin, dropping down next to him and desperately searching for a sign of life. He knew there would be none, that it was over and done already, but he searched anyway. This was so wrong; Kevin was an innocent. Hell, Kevin was a fucking Prophet—angels should be _protecting_ him, not snuffing out his life as casually as extinguishing a cigarette.

That it had happened, Dean knew, was entirely his fault. He hadn't figured things out in time; hadn't deduced Gadreel's true identity--hadn't been quick enough, strong enough, to protect Kevin. Another death laid at his doorstep, part of the ever-growing trail of Dean's failures. And that didn't even address what he'd done to his own brother in the first place by stuffing a renegade angel inside Sam's trial-wracked body, just so that Dean wouldn't have to live without Sam.

Which action had now led to this catastrophe.

Dean's body sagged, sitting crumpled next to Kevin's corpse. Everything converged to overwhelm him--who to save next, how to save them, what action to take. He shook his head--could he really save anyone?

And what was he going to do about Sam? How was he going to get his brother back?

 

The answer of what to do about Gadreel's possession of Sam was convoluted and painful. Every time Dean tried to warn Sam about the interloper angel, Gadreel stepped in and thwarted him, threatening Sam's well-being. Oddly enough, it turned out to be Crowley who saved the day; by breaking Sam's demon protection tattoo, Crowley was able to enter him and warn him of Gadreel's sinister intent.

Dean waited anxiously next to Sam's body, desperate to see his brother return as himself. The thought that he'd have to deal with an angry brother paled next to the urgency of having Sam back in his right mind, whole and sound. When he saw Crowley's crimson smoke emit from Sam's mouth, followed by Gadreel's angelic white, Dean's heart rejoiced even as the guilt of his action weighed on him.

 

 

“Dean, we have to do something. Kevin's getting worse every day.” Sam stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on Dean. “Don't try to excuse his behavior. He's turning into an angry spirit, and you know it. It's just like Bobby and Dick Roman all over again.”

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “It's not that bad, Sam.” He avoided his brother's eyes in an effort to deny Sam's words. As happy as he was that Sam had been fully restored to himself after the Gadreel debacle, sometimes Dean rued Sam's directness.

Sam huffed. “It _is_ that bad, Dean! He's mixing up magical ingredients so we don't know what's sage and what's ground mandrake root! Half of our incantations fizzle now, you know it's only a matter of time before things start backfiring more explosively! I'm constantly finding knives floating in the air. Important books and papers are disappearing.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “It sounds like small shit, but it's really not. Just the knives alone—when will they start doing more than floating, like with Max Miller? What if tomorrow it's guns? Or fucking with the wiring so the whole bunker burns up? Or the air pumps stop working?”

Dean drank his coffee, feeling Sam's words buffet him. Part of him knew Sam was right; Kevin had become an angry spirit, and he was deteriorating rapidly. They needed to make him move on before his anger started expressing itself by hurting them. He thought about Bobby. Bobby had been a hell of a fighter--persistent, resilient, tenacious. He'd also been blunt and gentle and loving, in his own gruff way. He'd been pretty calm as a spirit at first, still focused on the good fight, but his anger had started to curdle during the fight with Dick Roman; it had pooled in Bobby, filled his veins, and he'd finally started lashing out recklessly. Dangerously. He'd finally admitted it to himself when he'd caused Charlie to break her arm, and he'd told the boys to melt down his flask and take him out of the game. Dean still missed the grumpy son of a bitch.

Setting his coffee cup down, Dean sighed and nodded. “You're right. I've just been postponing the confrontation.” Man, he didn't want to face Kevin's cranky-ass spirit and tell it it was time to move on. He rubbed the back of his neck before turning to face his brother. “Fine. Only thing is, what is he tethered to? His bones are already burned, so what is the object holding his spirit here?”

Sam sat down across from Dean, long legs folding under the table. He leaned on his elbows as he thought, his forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Well, we can go through his room, see if anything looks like it could be his anchor? I don't think we've been in there since...” His voice trailed away.

Dean snorted. “Or just fucking burn everything.” He was only half-kidding. Pawing through the sad remnants of Kevin's existence sure didn't sound like a fun way to spend the morning.

They walked down the hall to Kevin's room, pausing when they got to the door. Dean could see the patina of dust that coated the furniture and books, there was a pile of crumpled laundry in the corner, and the sheets were still rumpled like Kevin had just gotten up that morning. His stomach twisted, but when he turned to look at Sam, he forgot his own dismay. Sam's face was pale, he was biting his lips, and his breathing was short and fast. “Jesus, Sam, breathe! You're going to pass out,” Dean exclaimed, rubbing Sam's back briskly. He hadn't really thought about Sam freaking out about being in Kevin's room, but obviously Sam was majorly affected. Dean kicked himself for not thinking about how Sam would feel about dealing with Kevin's things. Even though Sam knew it had been Gadreel's action, being the angel's vessel at the time of Kevin's murder still left him filled with guilt.

“Come on, buddy. It's okay. Just breathe.” Dean smoothed Sam's hair and squeezed his arm. “You want to go back to the kitchen? I can take care of this.”

Sam gave a little shudder and shook his head. “No,” he said with a tense jaw. “I'll be okay. Let's just get this over with.”

After an hour's work sifting through the contents of Kevin's room, there was a small pile of items on the bed that had been deemed likely anchor candidates. “Okay, let's go through these before we shake the rest of the room down. Maybe we've already hit pay dirt,” said Dean, sitting down on the mattress. Sam nodded and sat on the other side. One-by-one, they took turns picking up each item for examination.

It was not a large pile. A few pictures of Mrs. Tran, both alone and with Kevin. Dean noted how Sam's eyes skittered away, and he turned the pictures face down on the blanket. Kevin's wallet, with his driver's license, school ID, and eight dollars in it. A flash drive that looked like Pikachu. His cell phone, which was dead. His high school ring—topaz set in yellow gold—and another ring, white gold set with a round onyx.

“What's that ring?” Sam nodded toward the onyx one. “I don't remember him ever wearing that.”

Dean picked it up and examined it. It was clearly an old ring, the metal dull and adorned with small scratches. As he turned it in his hand, something caught his eye. Inside the ring, a name was engraved. “Hey, Sammy—it says 'David Tran' inside.”

“Think that's his father? Didn't he die when K-Kevin was a little boy?” Sam's voice falter but then he cleared his throat and spoke firmly. “I'd say that's the top contender for Kevin's tether.”

“Yeah, you could be right. We could just torch the whole pile--”

Wind swirled around them, setting all the papers to fluttering madly, along with Sam's hair. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and there was the sharp tang of ozone.

“Sam! Get out!” he yelled as he dove for the items on the bed. The pile of laundry rose up and smacked him in the face, blinding him with flailing empty sleeves. He scrabbled at the fabric, cursing when he heard Sam yell in pain. “Sam!”

“Books—hitting me—ow!” Sam ripped the clothing off Dean's face, hauling him toward the door.

“Wait! Gotta get the stuff!” Dean turned back and scooped the small pile up in his hands. “Okay--”

The wind blew stronger, and they could hear the unearthly sobbing whine that was less from air and more from Kevin. The door slammed shut, and both men cursed, hauling uselessly on the knob. More things hit Sam; a couple of them clipped Dean, but Sam was clearly receiving the brunt of the attack. While it started with books and clothes, Dean saw that other objects were joining the fray: pencils, a protractor, the throwing knives Kevin had started practicing with before his demise. At the current wind-speed, all of these escalated from merely annoying to downright dangerous.

“Sam, get down!” Dean yelled, falling to his knees and lying down himself. “Sam! _Down!_ ”

The mirror over the sink shattered, the pieces of glass joining in the flotsam swirling in the invisible current. Dean cursed and ducked, but not before he saw a few shards hit Sam, drawing blood. “Shit!” yelled Sam, trying again to yank the door open. He batted at the objects that continued to assault him.

Dean jumped up to deflect some of the arsenal. He received a few blows, but the bulk of the flotsam seemed to flow around him and zero in on Sam. Dean called out, “Sam, why you? We're both trying to destroy his anchor! Why is Kevin aiming this all at you?”

Sam shook his head. “Really, Dean?” He protected his face from the circling mirror shards, the backs of his hands becoming ribbed with trickles of blood. “I killed him. Me.”

Anger suffused Dean. “That's bullshit! You didn't kill him! That fucking angel-slime Gadreel did!” He tried making his way over to Sam, but the wind held him back, keeping them apart. It felt like he was in quicksand. “It wasn't _you_! Did you hear me, Kevin? It wasn't Sam!”

Sam's eyes were sad as he looked back at Dean. “I guess he's not making that distinction.” The same force that held Dean in place now pushed Sam against the door, hands flat on the wood as his arms and legs were pinned.

They stared at each other, the desperation of their situation sinking in. Lulled by the protections of the bunker, neither man had carried any weapon into the room with them. Clearly they'd underestimated Kevin's power and wrath, and now they both were pinioned, vulnerable. Ever his brother's protector, Dean raged to break free and do just that, but he was unable to move at all. Sam looked at him sorrowfully, his face resigned, his eyes full of love.

“Dean, I--”

“No!” Dean twisted his body back and forth in an effort to break free. “This is not happening!”

“Don't ever give up, Dean. You're the best hunter out there...the best man I know. Thank you--”

“Shut up, Sam! Shut up!” Dean felt moisture on his face and refused to think about why his vision was cloudy.

“I love you, big brother. Always.”

Sam's head cracked the wooden door as it was slammed against it. He grimaced, and Dean could see pressure from invisible fingers squeezing Sam's throat. He roared in anger, but it was useless. Sam's throat compressed visibly, his face purpling, while a horrid wheezing sound came from his aborted attempts to breathe. Dean couldn't bear to watch, but he could not look away; he felt the need to witness for his brother, to stand by Sam even as he endured the agonies of Kevin's fury. He could scarcely see, but he refused to close his eyes.

And then the wind stopped, all of the flying flotsam falling abruptly to the floor in a clatter, the mirror bits tinkling. Dean's tensed limbs jerking his body forward. He ran to the door, to--

To Sam.

Slumped now, half against the door, legs crumpled on the floor. Face still ruddy, eyes blank and staring, the hazel irises a horrible contrast to the now-crimson whites. Laxly curled fingers that still felt warm in Dean's palm.

Dean knew what he'd hear, but he put his ear to Sam's chest anyway. Nothing. No reassuring thump, the steady rhythm of life until now, no swish of circulating blood carrying oxygen throughout that ginormous, Sasquatch body.

He sat there for an unknown time, leaning against the wall and pulling Sam's body—Sam--into his arms and wetting that stupid, floppy hair with his tears.

 

 

Kevin was quiescent after he killed Sam. Dean ran into no further interference when he took the half-a-dozen items of Kevin's that they'd found to one of the furnaces and threw them in to be incinerated. While he couldn't confirm that Kevin was gone, it was clear that no more knives were floating around the bunker. Dean took that as a win, empty as it was.

As far as Sam's death went, Dean knew he had no real options, but he tried anyway. There wasn't much point in talking to a crossroads demon--the days were long past that one of them would consider making a deal with a Winchester—but he tried the ritual anyway. Burying a tin filled with dirt, bones, and an old fake ID of Sam's at an appropriately isolated crossroads, Dean scrabbled gravel over it and waited, first just standing and then pacing restlessly. Finally he sat down right on the gravel over Sam's tin, whereupon he pulled out a pint of whiskey and drank it while the sun rose. “Shoulda cut through the bureaucratic crap and talked directly with Crowley,” he mumbled. “This is what I get for following the rules.” He stood up and kicked through the gravel to retrieve the tin. “Fuck you! Keep your crappy deals! I'm talkin' to your boss, ya asswipes!” He sniffled some whiskey-flavored tears as he walked back to Baby.

After returning to the bunker and passing out for a couple of hours, Dean pondered his next move. He decided to call Crowley—what could it hurt? He also called Castiel, first by cell, then by grudgingly going to his knees and muttering a few curt phrases that could be loosely interpreted as a prayer.

Neither entity answered. Dean waited eight or ten hours before foraging in the larder and finding a bottle of Jose Cuervo. He didn't bother with salt or limes.

Dean waited for that hangover to pass before moving on to his next idea. He thought he would see about meeting with a reaper; maybe that was still a viable avenue. Dean figured he had nothing to lose—he'd already lost it all. He barked a laugh at his own morbid humor before he got busy.

He assembled his materials, letting his hands and mind work while memories of Sue-Ann LeGrange, wife of the reverend who'd saved Dean after his heart trauma, wandered around his head. She'd perverted the reapers' purpose with the use of dark magic in order to give her blind husband special powers, but Dean was hoping to make a legitimate deal of some kind, or even just appeal to the reaper's mercy. Whatever worked.

And it was Tessa who appeared to Dean's plea. Of course. Untold numbers of reapers out there, and he got Tessa again. On the other hand, Tessa knew him. Knew Sam. Maybe it was better this way after all.

“Dean.” Her voice was smooth and calm as always. “What's this about? Summoning a reaper is not to be done lightly.”

“I didn't do it lightly. I needed to talk to one of you.” Dean tried to match her tone, firm but unruffled.

“What is it?” Where a normal person might be fidgeting, Tessa was unnaturally still and composed.

“It's Sam. He--”

“Ah, yes. He was reaped as the ghost killed him, and then his body burned as is your custom. What of it?”

“He has to come back. He's needed here.” Dean heard the urgency slip into his voice. “I—we need him.”

Tessa's large, dark eyes surveyed Dean. “Dean, you know how this goes. I remember telling it to you many years ago. The warrior has to lay down his weapons; the fight will carry on without him. So it must be with Sam.”

“But--”

“Dean, your chances are over. You both have more than used them up already. I have no extra to give you, and I would not give them even if I had. The natural order has already been bent and twisted for the Winchesters many times, but it will do so no more.”

Dean's throat closed on the lump of grief stuck in it.

Tessa's face softened. “Dean, I am truly sorry for your loss. I know how deep the bond between you and Sam was. But I cannot and will not alter the natural order for it.”

Dean stood motionless in the empty room while tiny wisps of spent spell-smoke meandered in the air.

 

 

It was only a couple of mornings later that Dean turned around in the kitchen and almost spilled his freshly-poured coffee down Castiel's trench-coat. “Dammit, Cas!”

Castiel's blue eyes regarded him steadily. “Dean.”

Dean sat down, grabbing a napkin to wipe his wet mug off. “What's up? You here on a mission or as a free agent?” He closed his eyes as the first gulp of coffee went down, warming him inside. When he opened them back up, Cas was still standing there stiffly. “Sit down. Why are you here?”

The angry words _Where were you when Sam died? Or when I called?_ bounced around in Dean's head, but he refused to say them aloud. There was no point.

Castiel sat down across from Dean. “I...just recently became aware of Sam's death. I came to see how you are doing.”

Dean placed his cup on the table very carefully, exerting great control so that he wouldn't fling it across the kitchen and watch it shatter against the tiled wall. “Well, I'm glad our little doings make it into Heaven's gossip column. Good to know. As for me, I am doing just fucking fabulous, thank you ever so much for asking.”

Castiel tilted his head, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “You sound angry. Have I done something inappropriate?”

Gritting his teeth, Dean stared at Castiel. “How about nothing? You've done nothing. My brother died weeks ago, and you show up now? Where were you when it happened? Why didn't you answer my call? For that matter, why the fuck aren't you bringing him back right the fuck now?” He slammed his fist on the table.

“I cannot bring him back, Dean, as much as I might want to. I do not have that power, and even if I did, I cannot go--”

“Yeah, yeah, against the natural order, I got it.” Dean poured a slug of whiskey into his coffee. “I heard the whole party line already.”

“Ah, your conversation with Tessa.” Castiel shook his head. “I can understand your desire to restore your brother, but--”

“I said I got it!” Dean swallowed his spiked coffee down and threw the empty mug, control now abandoned. It shattered into shards, falling onto the floor. “If you don't have anything useful to offer, then get the hell out of here! I don't need you!”

Dean ran a hand over his eyes; when he looked again, Castiel was gone.

 

 

Dean pushed his foot down onto Baby's parking brake, uttering a fatigued sigh as he opened the door and got out. The bunker's garage looked as it did when he left; half a dozen vintage motorcycles, the same number of cars, all neatly parked in their concrete slips. He walked around to the trunk and popped it, reaching in to retrieve his duffle, the weapons bag, and the cursed object box. The box was making some little chirruping sounds when he lifted it, but he ignored that.

God, he was tired. He'd driven to Wisconsin for this hunt, and when he'd gotten there, it had taken three days to lure this little magic nugget out and trap it. Then the drive back, and...well, it wasn't like there was anyone to split the driving with. Or the hunting. Or a meal. Or...yeah.

Funny to think he missed being on the road with Sam. Hell, with Sam and their father both. Even with the way Sam and John would fight, had fought--yet now Dean felt positively misty-eyed about those endless hours in the car, John blasting music, Dean and Sam sharing snacks and squabbling in the back seat. The Impala seemed so large then; not that it was small now, but to two kids, those long bench seats were huge. They were everything: life raft, playground, home.

Now it was just Dean driving. Just Dean hunting. The seat all to himself. No big deal.

This hunt had just been a fucking cursed object. A mink wrap that didn't consider itself dead, so it flapped around and freaked people out and had wicked sharp teeth. Dean rubbed the bandage over his hand ruefully. At least it didn't have rabies.

So yeah, not even a _real_ hunt, like a werewolf or a vamp, a black dog or a poltergeist. Those hunts were even more fun nowadays, with no one to watch his back or toss him a weapon, no one to confer with or come up with stupid ideas from hours of boring research.

Stashing the box in the designated cursed object warehouse room once he was back at the bunker, Dean trudged up to his own room. He'd moved into a new hallway—walking down the same hall as Sam's room had been was... Without really formulating his thoughts about that, Dean simply decided that this hallway was closer to the kitchen and the garage, and therefore more convenient. He'd dragged all of his stuff over, including his memory foam mattress, set it all up just the same, but it didn't feel the same. He barely even looked over at his photos anymore, and the nights he went to sleep free from being whiskey-sodden were rare.

Traveling was the same; long miles eaten up by Baby's powerful engine and purring wheels, scored by battered rock Casettes, and yet—it wasn't the same. It took him two and a half months to stop getting a room with two beds. He justified it by the rationale that two beds gave him more room for weapons and such, but in the end, the extra bed seemed to just mock him with its pristine spread and cool, unrumpled sheets. Facing a single room ended up entailing less pretense that everything was okay, besides saving some bucks.

Kicking his dirty clothes into the corner, Dean walked down to the shower room with clean clothes in hand. He never worried about a robe, because there was no one around with delicate princess sensibilities to squawk at him. He stopped by the kitchen to grab a beer. No one there to complain about his burping or nude drinking. Pretty much he could do anything the fuck he felt like.

Woo fucking hoo.

Sometimes, he wished he couldn't. That someone—someone--was there to complain, to yell “Dean!” and bitch about his dirty clothes or his unwashed dishes. Someone he could gently antagonize and then run away giggling. Someone to trade well-worn jibes and insults with.

But there wasn't.

After the shower, he cracked open a second beer and sat back to check messages.

“Great job on that ---”

“Hey, heard you cleared--”

“Winchester, nice work. Call me, I might have a Rugaru case.”

“Something funky's happening over at Bellows Lake. Know you iced a kelpie recently, thought you could help. Call me.”

Dean slapped the machine off, finished his beer, and decided to go hit the Mexican place in Lawrence. It was tasty, fast, and cheap, and hey—no one would complain later if he ate too many beans and tooted up the place.

Sometimes, he wished someone would.

 

 

“Dean, it's Garth, call me back. Got a--” **beep**

“Winchester! Think your machine is full--” **beep**

“Hey, it's Anna from the bar--” **beep**

“Um, hi, you gave me your number--” **beep**

“Dean, it's Charlie, call me b--” **beep**

“It's Charlie, call me back, doof--”**beep**

“Call me or it's the flying monkeys!” **beep**

Dean felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Three messages from Charlie, each one clearly more aggravated than the one before. He could just picture her big, sweet smile, her bouncy red hair, the goofy, nerdy t-shirts. She'd called several times back when—Dean had always meant to call her back, it just never...was the right time.

He pulled out his phone. Clicking away, he texted her back. It was easier than talking. If it weren't for interrogating some dick during a case, Dean thought idly, he wouldn't have to use his voice for days. He was torn when she replied that she'd be swinging by the bunker this week; Charlie was warmth and love and hugs in a snarky, brilliant package, but she also meant interaction on a level Dean had almost given up on. He wasn't sure he was even capable of that at this point.

The phone beeped with Charlie's itinerary. Dean sighed and got up. Time to do some laundry and dishes. A drink or three wouldn't go amiss either.

 

 

Charlie arrived four days after her phone call. During that time, Dean managed to catch up on laundry, restock the pantry so it didn't look like he was surviving on chips and peanuts and Slim Jims, and collect all of the empty bottles and fast food wrappers. He found himself pacing impatiently outside the bunker, waiting for the rattle of her crappy little car and the joy of her smile.

“Dean!” Charlie burst out from her car and wrapped her arms tight around Dean. He hugged her tight, closing his eyes and burying his nose in her softly scented hair. The warmth and pressure of her arms were a balm to his chapped soul; he hadn't even realized, much less admitted to himself, how affection-deprived he was.

They stood several moments, until finally Charlie loosened her grip enough to look up at Dean. “Dean, how are you?” He opened his mouth to say something glib, but she put a finger on his lips. “Really. The truth. Don't give me some easy fib—I promised Sam a long time ago that I wouldn't let you fake me out or fool me on the important stuff.”

That robbed him of words for a moment—learning that Sam had thought about a life where he'd departed, Dean's life alone. He blinked hard, feeling a pricking in his eyes that he preferred to deny, and said, “I'm...I'm getting by. I hunt. I drink. I do what I have to.”

“And is that enough? Are you okay?” Her eyes alertly searched his, and he could not muster his defenses.

“I...it's...” He broke off and shook his head shortly, unable to speak for fear the words would come out with the tears he'd blocked since that dreadful day.

Her arms enclosed him again. “Okay. I got you for now. Let's go inside.”


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/109761/109761_original.jpg)

They talked and laughed, sitting over Chinese food and beers. Charlie regaled him with the latest stories from her travels and fandom adventures, and he had old stories she'd never heard about pranks and hunts gone sideways. They watched _The Force Awakens_ and _Rogue One_ , Charlie chiding him and saying he wasn't a full-fledged Star Wars fan without seeing them. He teased her back that she just wanted to drool over Rey and Jin, and she agreed that they were drool-worthy. “They're fighters though—that's the big thing. They weren't damsels in distress, they both were fighters. Heroes.” Dean had to concede that was true.

After Charlie went to bed, Dean sat in his room, listening to music while he swirled whiskey in a Aquarian star-monogrammed cut glass tumbler, watching the amber liquid circle before shooting it and then pouring a fresh measure. Seeing Charlie, being with Charlie, had reawakened feelings he'd worked hard to pack away since Sam's death. He'd shut down the areas of his heart and brain that deal with caring, with tenderness and love. It felt almost awkward to have those currents of emotion moving through him again, like a shirt he'd outgrown or shoes that were too small and pinched his toes.

When she left the next morning, her usually animated face looked uncharacteristically serious. “You can't do this,” she said softly, looking straight into his eyes. “You have too much to give, Dean. Don't lock it all away—it's not what Sam would want.” He hugged her tightly, laying his cheek against her vibrant hair. “Try, Dean. Just...try. There's still good stuff in the world.”

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her body and the light scent of her shampoo fill him for a moment. Dropping his hands to her arms, he gently pushed her away. “You want to get going, if you're going to reach Cincinnati by evening.”

Charlie looked up at him with a sigh. “You Winchesters...you just dig your heels in, don't you? Okay, I'm leaving, but I'll be back.” She kissed his cheek and walked to her car, giving a little final wave when she started it and drove away.

Dean skipped the whiskey that night, instead lying on his bed, eyes open. The mattress dipped next to him, and he held still, breathing in the scent of clean flannel and citrus shampoo. Refusing to glance over and see if someone was really there, Dean simply chose to accept that Sam lay next to him, his shadow dark on the sheets. Dean didn't know if 'Sam' slept, but neither of them spoke all night.

The hunts blurred together over the months. Dean briefly wondered how many months—maybe it was years now?

It didn't matter.

Back to the task at hand. Drive, eat, plan. Interview the victims and suspects, dragging out his Fed suit. Clean the weapons. Sleep on the crappy motel bed, drink the crappy diner coffee. Do the hunt. On a good one, celebrate with drinks and some meaningless sex with a horny barmaid or party girl, just to scratch the itch. He could be balls-deep in some sweet pink pussy, fucking away as she squealed beneath him, and his mind would be split; one half immersed in the animal sensations of hot-wet-tight and the other half busy planning out his next day's journey. Play with her tits, kiss her, suck on her neck, pump his hips, make sure she comes before he comes, game over. Then extricate himself with a modicum of politeness and head back to the room, sleep for four hours, lay awake for five. Rinse and repeat.

Dean didn't consciously keep busy to avoid thinking about Sam. It wasn't an actual choice that he made. It was more like an invisible force field that set itself up in his brain, something that pushed away anything that came too close to it. Inside that field was Sam; all of Dean's memories, his recollections of everything Sam had done and said, the way he smelt and sounded and how his hair fell into his eyes. Whenever Dean's mind began to stray too close, the force field pushed his thoughts away, shunting them into deciding on a hunt, a target, doing research, making a plan. Anything to engage his mind and activity and draw it away from the area that was still too tender to touch.

It made for a bleak, solitary life. Dean had never considered living alone, hunting alone, but now he slogged through his life in virtual isolation, eyes constantly focused on the next hunt, the next thing he was going to kill. He occasionally ran into fellow hunters pursuing the same monster, but he never joined up with them beyond coordinating with tracking and killing the monster, and sometimes not even for that. Offers for post-hunt drinks were spurned, plans to meet up turned aside. The only companionship Dean ever sought out was for sex, but it was more animal reflex, and the sheets were always still warm when he left. 

The only person he truly wanted to see...was gone.

When his phone started playing _Walking on Sunshine_ , Dean grudgingly picked it up. He'd promised Charlie he'd answer, barring being on an active hunt, and she was too important to let down. Despite his denial that life wasn't going too well, Dean was still aware that the threads of his human relationships were fraying, and he didn't want to have Charlie's unravel.

“What's up, Red?”

“Dean! I think I have a hunt, but I want to come there and pick your brain. I'm about five hours out—can I head on in to the bunker?” Her words were hurried, her voice sounded excited above the hum of the road. Dean tried to remember what excitement like that felt like.

“Of course. You know where to park. Text me and I'll meet you at the door.” He clicked off after her assent, then looked around the bunker.

It was a pigsty. Papers coated every desk, punctuated by almost-empty liquor bottles and weighed down with crumb-strewn plates. A couple of pairs of heavy boots, filthy and muddy, languished by the stairs, and dirty weapons were in a haphazard pile on one map table. Dean knew without getting up that the kitchen had two sinks worth of dirty dishes, an overflowing garbage can, and a good three cases of empty beer bottles, to say nothing of vodka and whiskey liters.

“You know she's gonna freak when she sees the mess.” Sam's voice was calm, like he was commenting on the weather.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean pushed himself up from the table. “I'll take care of it.” He walked to the kitchen for trash bags, carefully avoiding looking into the map room's shadowy corners and alcoves in case he saw Sam lingering there. Or didn't see him.

Having conversations with Sam was a relatively new development. Dean had been half-expecting some manifestation of his brother at some point, so he didn't wig out when he first heard Sam speak to him. Of course he'd built a hunter's pyre for Sam's corpse, but even that wasn't always the end of the journey, as Dean well knew. He never really saw Sam; it was more like a shadow out of the corner of his eye, tall and long-limbed, with a mop of dark hair. If he turned to look at it, it was gone, like a floater in his eye. So Dean stopped looking, desperately grateful for any link, no matter how amorphous, with his brother.

Being the hunter that he was, of course, he swept the bunker with the EMF, looked through various lenses. Nothing registered—no blinking lights, no blaring whine of an otherworldly reading. Nonetheless, there was no mistaking Sam's voice; the deep tone of it, the cadence of his sentences, as familiar to Dean as his own. Adrift in a sea of loneliness and isolation, Dean simply put the EMF away and stopped worrying about it. He heard Sam, conversed with him, and that was that. Real or unreal didn't matter.

It was better than nothing.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/110029/110029_original.jpg)

“Wow, Dean, you're baching it better than I anticipated!” Charlie looked around, and Dean could see her approval as she appraised the crumb-and-spill free tables and counters, the tidy rooms. “Here I thought you'd be waist-deep in bottles and trash. Kudos, dude!” She patted him on the back, and he marshaled a half-smile.

“Yeah, who can live like that, right?” He gave a weak little laugh, glad she didn't know about the last few hours of frantic cleaning. “C'mon, have a seat. Want a beer?”

“Of course!”

They sat and talked, which meant it was mostly Charlie burbling about finally making it back to San Diego ComicCon, (“No new tattoos though!”). Dean suggested Chinese again, not wanting to reveal the emptiness of the bunker's pantry. They ate companionably, and finally Charlie's stories wound down. Dean looked up from his General Tso's beef and caught her eyeing him. 

“What?”

She put her chopsticks down. “You've hardly said a word since I got here. I know I'm a chatterbox, but what's up?”

“Nothing. Same old. Hunting. Driving. Drinking. Maybe a little hustling here and there.” He decided that telling her about hearing his dead brother's voice was not a good idea. Too many questions. “Not much to say.”

Charlie drank some beer and poked at her shrimp and broccoli before choosing a fortune cookie. Cracking it open, she extricated the paper fortune before cramming the cookie into her mouth. Dean couldn't help chuckling at her crunching. She flapped a hand at him, fortune held between her fingertips. “This could be it, you know! My ticket to fame and fortune!”

Dean snatched it from her. “Keep your eyes open and you will safely find your path,” he read aloud. “Yeah, that's a real guidepost for life there.”

Daintily picking a broccoli floret, Charlie huffed, “You never know what the day will bring, right? It might just be true.”

Dean sobered, catching a shadow in the corner of the kitchen. A tall figure in a plaid shirt flickered and disappeared. “Yeah, you never do.”

“Coffee's ready, and I found some frozen waffles. Geez, Dean, think you need to do a little grocery shopping?” Charlie put plates on the table, along with a plate of waffles and the bottle of maple syrup. “Shelves are a little empty in there.” She nodded towards the pantry. “Breakfast was almost leftover Chinese. Not that I haven't done that before, but yay waffles.”

Dean's face flushed, and he could hear the defensive note in his voice as he answered, “Been traveling a lot. Just haven't had time to catch up.”

She patted him on the arm as she sat down. Forking a waffle onto her plate and drizzling syrup over it, she replied, “It's okay. I'm going to run out for some snacks after breakfast, but we can make a proper run to Hy-Vee later and get you re-stocked. Okay?”

He ducked his head. A matter of months, and he was forgetting what it was like to have someone give a shit, actually care about his well-being. “Yeah, sounds great.”

The plates, forks, and cups from breakfast were barely in the drying rack when Charlie bounced back into the kitchen. “Okay, I'm running to the Gas n' Sip and then we can talk about my hunt idea. Don't go rambling off somewhere before I get back.”

“You got it.” Dean gave her a quick hug and a fleeting kiss on the forehead. “No speeding.”

“Aye aye, sir!” She gave a mock salute and scampered out the door.

Dean decided to address some housekeeping until she got back, so he gathered up his laundry and took it to the bunker's laundry room. As always, he silently thanked the Men of Letters for ending his days of visiting sketchy, dingy laundromats. He sorted his clothes—hunting and non-hunting—and got a couple of loads going. He laid a towel down on his bed and began cleaning his weapons. This task always relaxed him, and he lost track of time as he wiped, oiled, and reassembled all of his guns and checked the blades of every knife.

Wiping his hands, Dean stashed all of the weapons in his room, thinking hard about a beer. He went into the kitchen and popped open a bottle. Looking up while he took a refreshing swig, he caught sight of the clock.

4:00.

Wait...what?

Dean put the bottle down and pulled out his phone. Hadn't Charlie left at, say...12:30? He thumbed at his contact list and dialed.

Nothing.

He tried it four more times, but voicemail answered every time. “Hi, it's me. I can't pick up right now, but--”

 _Don't get squirrely now, Winchester,_ he thought. _She got a flat or something. Everything's fine._ At the same time, he grabbed his gun and a jacket, racing for the garage. Hitting the garage door button, he started Baby, then pulled up the local news, just in case.

“--at the scene. Police responded to a silent alarm at the Gas n' Sip on 281, where an attempted robbery was taking place. Police responded and apprehended the armed robber, 24-year-old Mortimer Leroy Stebbins, who threatened the Gas n' Sip cashier with a .9mm, but the cashier activated the alarm before he raised his hands. Shots were fired, grazing the employee as well as fatally injuring a young woman waiting at the register.”

The words droned on but Dean stopped understanding them. That couldn't be Charlie, could it? They couldn't mean Charlie. She'd just gone out to buy some damn snacks. She hadn't just been killed in some stupid robbery. That was ridiculous.

Dean took a deep breath, gripping Baby's steering wheel hard. Everything was fine. He was going to get there and Charlie would race to him, telling him of the horrifying event while he hugged her tight. They'd go back to the bunker and have a stiff drink while rejoicing in her safety.

Police cars and the coroner's wagon were still clustered in the parking lot of the Gas n' Sip. Dean parked well outside of them, rummaging through his ID box. He'd get a lot further as a Fed. He got out of the car and strode in with an air of authority. Half the time, the authority demeanor alone was enough in situations like this.

“Special Officer Winter.” Dean flashed his ID. “What happened? You have the perp? I heard report of a vic?” _Not a vic, not Charlie, no no no..._

“Yes sir. Robbery, single armed perp, .9mm. Um...sir, why is a Fed on a convenience store shooting? Aren't you on the big cases?”

The young officer—Ofc. Lane Melstra according to his ID tag—looked a little awestruck at Dean's credentials. Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “I'm out of the Wichita office. We're trailing a serial—yeah, forget I said that, would ya, Lane? Confidential, know what I mean? Now gimme what you got so far.”

“Sir yes sir. Cashier hit the alarm, got grazed on his arm and his side. Vic is over there, they're just about to take her away.” The young officer waved a hand to the side, and Dean turned to see a figure covered by a sheet. Red splotches blossomed hideously on the gray fabric.

“She caught one in the belly and one in the chest. Coroner said she never had a chance.” The officer continued, but Dean ignored him as he walked over to the body, bending down to lift the corner of the sheet.

_Not Charlie, not Charlie, not Charlie, please dear God, spare her. Spare me._

“Dean! Thank God you're here! They kept making me lie down on the floor and covering me with this musty sheet. I tried to say I was fine, but they just wouldn't listen.” Charlie's voice was as bubbly as ever. Dean huffed a sigh, closing his eyes a moment in relief.

When he opened them, Charlie was lying still and quiet. Her hair spilled around her in a fiery spray against the dirty linoleum floor, but her face was already unnaturally pale. Her hands, always so busy, lay unmoving at her sides. Her t-shirt—one of her goofy ones with a unicorn and a rainbow, was soaked in blood, the sticky crimson obscuring the t-shirt's words, _I Believe_. Someone had closed her eyes, and Dean was grateful for that small mercy.

_I Believe._

“Yeah, you always did, sweetheart.” Dean blinked hard to keep tears back. “You always did.”

Dean got up and turned to the young officer. Clearing his throat, he barked questions. “Where's the investigation at? We have the trash that did this?”

“He's already been transported away. We're just about to get this all cleaned up, you came just in time.”

 _Yeah, just in time. Just in time to see the blood, see the body of my friend. My family._ Dean took a deep breath and smiled at Lane. “Good job, buddy. Very efficient. I'll be sure to let my superiors know about how well you handled this.” He winked. “We're always looking for good men in the Bureau.”

He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Lane burbling his gratitude and Charlie cold and alone under a sheet.

He got almost all of the way back to the bunker before he had to stop Baby, throwing the door open and falling to his knees on the gravel shoulder to empty his stomach.

“You're torturing yourself.” Sam's calm observation annoyed Dean.

“Fuck you. I shoulda gone with her. Then she wouldn't be dead.” Dean slugged vodka down, his throat constricting painfully around the liquid, making him grimace and cough.

“Maybe you would be dead instead. Would that be any better?” Shadow-Sam tilted his ethereal head.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” Slug. “Like...fuck you. You're not here, you don't get to have a say in this.”

“Agreed. But I still have a say about you, and I'm glad you aren't dead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm a real winner.”

“Don't be an ass, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took another slug. “Smart-ass.”

“Dumb-ass.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, but instead of darkness, all he saw was red hair spilled over black and white linoleum.

If life had pared down for Dean after Sam's death, now it went to the bone. Every word he had to speak to people was an effort. Every interaction felt like he was merely playing a part, including ordering at a diner or bar. He could see the lines in his head: _Dean enters the sleazy bar, selecting a seat so that he faces the door. A sexy blonde waitress approaches, cleavage on display. Dean orders a beer—the liquor comes later. When she brings him his beer, her number is scrawled on a cocktail napkin._ And so on.

He couldn't wait to be sitting back inside Baby, sitting alone on the black leather seats, listening to his classic rock echo off or stream out of the windows. Baby was his cocoon on the go, his immediate escape from all the people he needed to deal with while he was hunting. When he was done interrogating, he could hop into her and just drive off. In the dark of night, he could lay down rubber for miles on empty highways. Baby only ever required gas and oil; no conversation was ever necessary.

The bunker provided the balm of sanctuary; it was his place to get away completely from the outside world, to live in alone, free of any expectations or interactions. It was also the hell of true isolation, full of shadows and dimly heard voices, a luxurious, giant prison cell. As welcome the solitude was upon his returns, after a few days Dean would be itching to get back out, to drive and drive and drive--to find some disgusting, evil son-of-a-bitch and kill it and forget, for a few brief seconds, what a mockery his life had become.

At one worn-down bar in yet another podunk town, he went in and ordered a draft and two tequila shots. He drank the first shot, savoring the distinctive agave taste as it melded with the salt and lime, and left the other sitting there for his entire time at the bar. Four beers and five shots later, he finally picked it up. “You and me, Sammy. It's supposed to be you and me.” Tossing the liquor down his throat, he slammed the glass down. “Now what the hell am I gonna do, Sam?” He threw some bills down and went back to the seedy motel of the night.

It was more than just losing Charlie. He missed her terribly, but this hollowness went beyond that one loss. It was that her death—her removal from his already sparsely populated world—not only reminded him anew of his greater loss, but of how bereft he was at all. So many had already gone on, departed this world one way or another, that Dean acutely felt how alone he was at this point. Like roads to Rome, everything seemed to lead back to Sam, and that...that was a loss he couldn't adapt to.

“I want to see him, Sam.” Dean's words were soft but determined.

“Why?”

“I want to understand why he did it. What made him do it, you know? His reason.”

“You know what Dad always said.”

Dean nodded. “Monsters I get; people are crazy.”

“That might be all you get.”

“I know.”

“Will that be enough?”

“I don't know. But I gotta do it and see.”

Dean could feel the shadow nod in understanding.

Dean showed up in his full Fed suit array at the gate of the El Dorado Correctional Facility. The name of the Gas 'n Sip shooter had been in the news, so Dean had been able to track him down quite easily. Now he sat in an interrogation room, waiting to see Mortimer “Morty” Leroy Stebbins, white 19-year-old male, convicted of murder in the second degree and aggravated assault, said charges incurred during his attempted robbery of the Gas 'n Sip at the intersection of routes 281 and 36.

Morty was ushered in, wearing an orange jumpsuit with “EDCF” in large black letters across the front. His face was blank, and he received the introduction to Dean Davies with no reaction or interest.

“We'll be at the door, Agent,” said the older of the escorting guards, and they exited, closing the barred door behind them.

Dean studied the young man sitting in front of him. He had no outstanding features that Dean could ascertain. His face was pale and bland, his chin weak, his hair a dull mouse-brown. Finally Dean broke the silence and addressed Morty in a terse voice.

“So, Morty, what can you tell me about the shooting at the Gas 'n Sip out there on 36?”

Morty shrugged. “It's all in the trial records, I guess.” He sounded uninterested in the matter.

Dean felt a stab of annoyance. “Yes, it is, but I want to hear it from you. I want to know what you were thinking when it happened. How it happened at all—what you decided to do when.”

Morty shrugged again, and Dean thought if he did that one more time, Dean was going to smack him upside the head. 

“I robbed it because I needed some money. I was working at the plumbing warehouse, but they fired me for not making my quota, and I needed money quick, so I thought, I'll hold up the Gas'n Sip and then it'll be okay.”

“All right. Then what happened?”

“I got there and it was empty 'cept for the cashier, it was perfect. So I take out my gun that I got from my buddy and I tell the cashier to give me all the money. Only it turns out it ain't empty, 'cause this chick comes up with a basket all fulla junk food. Man, she had chips, Chee-tos, mini donuts, some candy—like she was having some kinda party, or maybe she got the munchies real bad. And she gets in between me and the cashier, tries to talk me out of holding him up, but I know he's got one of those silent alarms, so I tell her to get out of the damn way or I'll shoot her.”

Dean flexed his fingers, imagining them around Morty's neck.

“She wouldn't move, so I pointed the gun at her. She backed up to the counter, but she still wouldn't budge, the dumb bitch.”

Dean shot out of his seat, but managed to keep from hitting Morty. One of the guards popped in and asked if everything was all right. Dean clenched his fists and nodded, sitting back down and motioning for Morty to continue.

“That's about it. I needed the money, and she wouldn't get out of the way, so I shot her.”

Dean's vision went black for a moment. Of course Charlie died protecting someone else. He rubbed his forehead, pinching his nose to deflect the pricking in his eyes.

“So...you just gunned her down.”

“Yeah, and the goddamn cashier had already hit the silent alarm, so then the police were right there. And that's it.”

Dean cleared his throat. “What...just what did you need the money for, Morty? Drugs? Gambling debt? Pregnant girlfriend? What was so damn urgent?”

Morty shook his head. “Nothin' like that. I had a line on a real sweet motorcycle, friend of a friend was selling it real quick. I thought, bike like that, I'd score me some hot tail, maybe even get out of this lame state.” He snorted. “Now I'm stuck in here for the next ten years. Stupid bitch, ruined my life.”

This time when Dean bolted from his chair, he grabbed Morty by the throat with one hand. Staring down at Morty's pale blue eyes, wide with panic, Dean growled low, “You killed her, you utter asshole. She was smart and funny and brave...she was a fucking _hero_ , and you destroyed her for a fucking bike. You ever speak of her like that again, ever even think of her like that, and I'll come back here and rip your fucking throat out after I tear your nuts off.” He shook Morty, whose eyes were bulging with fear now. The acrid odor of urine told Dean that Morty had just pissed himself. “You _got_ that, Mortimer?”

Morty gave an aborted nod and squeaked assent.

Dean shook his hand free and banged on the door, striding away as soon as the guards opened it, leaving Morty and the puddle underneath his chair behind.

Dean scarcely remembered the drive back to Lebanon and the bunker. When he thought about it later, he felt he'd been caught in a haze of swirling images, like when the movies tried to show that someone was on drugs or had a concussion. There was Charlie, red hair bouncing as she ran to hug him and Sam. Charlie dressed as the Queen of Moondor, smiling and waving at her subjects. Charlie at the bunker laughing over pizza and beer with Sam. Charlie dancing around with her ear-buds in to some silly pop song.

Intermixed with those images were the surreal stills from the Gas 'n Sip. A metal-handled shopping basket askew on the floor, chips and candy spilling out of it. A gray sheet draped over an unmoving figure lying prone. Red hair fanned messily across black and white linoleum. A still white hand with a Leia phone case clutched in it.

All for a stupid motorcycle. A fucking piece of metal. Not anything important. Not something irreplaceable. Not even remotely worth Charlie's death, worth removing her from the world forever. From Dean.

Fuck Morty, and everyone like him. Wasn't a monster as much as any vampire or ghoul, feeding off decent people who deserved to live? What made humans any different from monsters, the fact that they had a soul? Fat lot of good souls seemed to do—Dean sure didn't see any evidence of souls in action in events like these. All that could be seen was hate, malevolence, violence; blind, hungry violence that decimated the good and caused irreparable harm to the survivors.

He parked Baby in the garage, stripping off his tie and jacket as soon as he walked in the map room door and grabbing a bottle of whiskey before heading to his room.

Over the next several months, Dean's hunting habits changed. He still sought out werewolves, rugarus, ghosts, poltergeists, any denizens of the supernatural world he heard of or could find. In the past, if he found out that people were responsible for the case and not something supernatural, he left it alone. Maybe there would be an anonymous tip to the local police force, but he was done with it, moving on to the next lead.

Now Dean found himself still following those cases, sifting through the evidence and determining who was responsible for the crimes. Sometimes it was a matter of misguidance, of someone making the wrong choice, taking an unfortunate turn. In those cases, Dean tipped off either the police or whoever it was that could help them work it out. He avoided getting involved directly, but he gave a nudge here or there to help make things right.

Other cases turned out to be the evil brought forth by human villainy and degradation. Abuse, slavery of all types, torture, rape; these all sickened Dean when he found them rooted in human perpetrators and not otherworldly creatures. Humans were supposed to know better, to be better. The revulsion that took root during his interview with Morty developed a more distinct form, prompting Dean to act as judge and jury in those cases. He took the deadly action he felt was needed, and he felt no qualms, no hesitation about performing that task. Humans who performed acts like that deserved to be put down as much as any monster.

Several months had passed since the confrontation with Morty when a hunt in Alabama beckoned Dean, despite the daunting August heat of the Deep South. It was one of his least favorite but most compelling scenarios--kids disappearing in a small town--so Dean threw a few things in a duffel and headed out to investigate. The further southeast he got, the higher the temperature and humidity rose. The interior of the Impala was blessed protection from the intensity of the summer sun, and Dean's sun-dazzled vision tried to slip toward the flickering shadows playing over the passenger seat.

“Sam...”

“Shh, Dean. Gotta keep going. It's kids, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We gotta help them. You gotta help them, okay?”

“Okay, Sam. I will.”

Rubber sped down asphalt hot enough to burn bare feet, sending up little shimmers of heat that looked like puddles in the distance. Dean's shirt gradually dampened, wicking up his body's moisture until it looked two shades darker. He knew he'd have to stop for water before he dehydrated, but pushed it until Baby declared unequivocally that she needed gas in her tank and water in her radiator.

Dean pulled off Route 43 and into a gas station with the sign so faded, it was almost unreadable. He pulled up to the pump and hooked Baby up before going inside for his own provisioning. The cool air conditioning made him shiver at first, but he sighed in relief, closing his eyes and reveling as it swirled around him. 

Taking another deep breath of the refreshingly cool oxygen, Dean started grabbing what he needed. Three or four water bottles, some chips for salt, jerky for protein, peanut M&M's for energy; he filled his arms and approached the register. As luck would have it, someone else was already there, and Dean huffed in impatience, juggling his items without really paying attention to the people in front of him at first.

When the kid in front of him pulled out a gun, Dean started paying close attention. Fuck his luck that he walked in when the place was being robbed. Shit. He dropped his items and the noise of water bottles thumping and bags crinkling drew the robber's attention. He swung around, gun pointing at Dean now; Dean could see his eyes nervously darting around and his gun-hand trembling. A real career criminal, this one.

“Hey kid, put it down. No one has to get hurt here.” Dean squinted at the cashier's name-tag. “Kurt there is going to get the cash for you and we can all walk away from this with no one getting shot, okay?” Kurt nodded vigorously, his hands in the air and his eyes wide. Dean nodded at him. “Let's just take this easy, boys.” 

“Fuck you! Shut the fuck up!” The gunman—gunboy? He didn't look eighteen yet, all mottled skin and wanna-be beard—yelled hoarsely at Dean. “Now get the goddamn money and put it in a bag!”

Kurt lowered his hands to obey, but suddenly collapsed to the floor. Dean spun around, his own gun in his hand, and saw an older man standing just inside the door, weapon in hand. Dean realized he'd just shot Kurt, bullet passing close enough to Dean to practically graze him. Where the gunboy was nervous and fidgety, this man was icy calm, his gun hand rock-stable and his eyes surveying the situation coldly.

Dean drew his Colt 1911 on the man, and they stared at each other in a stalemate. “Okay, this doesn't have to escalate. You go on about your business and I'll take care of Kurt and no one else has to get hurt,” Dean said, his other hand open. He didn't know how badly Kurt had been injured, but hoped there was still time to get him help.

“Fuck off,” snarled the gunman. He pulled the trigger, and the gunboy dropped to the ground. “That's what I get for letting a fuckwit join up. Just take care of you and--”

Dean squeezed the trigger, shooting the gunman in his shoulder. He screamed and fell, clutching his shoulder while blood began to trickle down his arm, his gun abandoned on the floor. Dean kicked it away before racing to the counter to check on Kurt. Gunboy was already dead, the bullet hole in his forehead and the pool of blood behind his head clearly indicating his demise. Unfortunately, Kurt exhibited those same characteristics—clearly Gunman was a much more capable criminal than the ex-gunboy. Dean sighed as he turned away from the counter.

Gunman, breathing unevenly from the pain, looked up at Dean angrily. “What did you have to go and butt in for, asshole?”

Dean scoffed. “So sorry for interrupting your lousy attempt at a stick-up.” He turned the Colt 1911 around and whipped it against the gunman's face. “What did you have to go and shoot those boys for? So you could feel better about your shriveled little dick?” He whipped the gun the other way, and gunman cursed in pain.

“What do you care? You didn't know them. One was the clerk in a crap-ass gas station in the middle of Bumfuck, Alabama, and the other was my ex's incompetent son. So what if they died? What do they matter to anyone?” The gunman panted angrily, his eyes still deadly despite his bloody arm and the crimson bruises on this cheeks.

“They're people. People matter.” Dean's skin felt tight, like the hate he felt for this man was bloating him. He gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to continue pistol-whipping this asshole, or maybe start breaking his fingers so he'd never shoot a gun again. He settled for grabbing the gunman's shoulder and squeezing, digging his fingers into the bullet wound as hard as he could. The gunman screamed and wrenched himself away, falling sideways onto the floor.

“Fine—if people matter, then I matter too, right, dickwad?” He panted harshly, glaring at Dean. “So fuck you again. You think you're so perfect? You're the one beating up the injured man.”

“You're the one who killed two boys. I'm betting they didn't do squat to anyone to deserve that, even your wanna-be partner, not the way he handled that gun. They were innocent.” Dean idly wondered where his anger was coming from, why it felt so intense, but pushed the thought away. Focusing back on the gunman, he asked, “How did these two fucking deserve to die?”

“Because they were in my way,” sneered the gunman. “And before you get any more righteous, just remember that I am as much of God's creation as they are. I'm as God made me, so blame Him if you're gonna blame anyone.”

That did it. Dean's anger surged like a wildfire, and without a moment's further thought, he raised the Colt and emptied it into the gunman. He stared at the body, bleeding now from the chest and head, the wine-colored fluid pooling on the floor.

“There, you son-of-a-bitch. You're done.” Dean bit off the words. “And you're right. I do blame God. I blame Him for all of you scum-sucking dickheads. And I'm going to tell Him that when I see Him.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean thought about that conversation a lot as he drove around the country the following months, seeking out hunt after hunt. The images of the young cashier and the equally young gunboy remained clear whenever he closed his eyes, sometimes intermingling with Charlie, Kevin, and Sam.

“Remember being that young, Dean?”

Dean chuckled, lying on the scratchy motel blanket, carefully not-looking at the shadow on the other bed. “Yeah. No. I remember being in the back seat and Dad would finally stop somewhere for gas. He'd go take a piss and we could pick out a couple of snacks.”

Sam's laugh drifted through the air. “You always got peanut M&M's and spicy Slim Jims, with a Coke.”

“You bet! Those were quality snacks. You always got Funyuns and licorice with a root beer.”

They laughed softly together.

“Seemed a lot easier then, didn't it?” Dean asked wistfully. “Even when it wasn't.”

“Yeah, that's kinda how memories work.”

“Sam...”

Silence.

Dean lay quietly, watching darkness fall and the shadows from the streetlights climb the motel walls.

Dean's stops at the bunker grew less frequent as time went on; every stop there brought up the memories of Kevin, Sam, and Charlie afresh, and the air seemed thick with shadows. There was always a shadow in Baby's passenger seat—a long-legged, long-haired shadow, but as long as Dean kept his eyes averted, it was content to stay there. The lack of any EMF response and the tenuous nature of the shadow sometimes made Dean question if it was truly Sam's ghost or simply his own imagination playing tricks, but either way it was Sam, so he really didn't care.

In between hunts, Dean tried to do some reading and see what philosophers thought about God and the nature of man. That went south quickly; he had had no idea of the depth of that topic, and just how many books and words had been written about it. He wished desperately for his brother's researching gift and patience with long-winded thinkers. Dean could read up on nasties and how to kill them with no problem, but this kind of pondering was way out of his scope, to say nothing of being dull and dry.

The nut of the issue, as he saw it, was what the guy at the Alabama gas station had said. God created man—in his own image, if the Bible was to be believed—and so God was responsible for how everyone was made. Good or bad, their nature ultimately lay at God's feet. Dean was aware of free will, (heck, they'd named themselves that at one point), but the nature of a person was already in place, hard-wired by the Big Guy Himself. Choices could be made along the way, but the raw material was already factory installed.

One August night, Dean sat on Baby's hood, sipping a beer and staring up at the stars while he contemplated God and man. His lips twitched in a half-smile when he thought about Sam seeing him here; they'd shared many a night like this under these same stars, but Dean had rarely been one for pondering the nature of the universe back then. He'd been more prone to reliving hunts and listening to music, while Sam had been the philosophical one. Dean studiously ignored the shadow leaning against the other side of the windshield.

“So is that how it works?” he asked aloud. “The Supreme Poobah rules all, shapes all? Does that mean I'm fighting a losing battle, going one case at a time? Maybe I need to think big. Maybe if it's God's fault, God is the one to pay.” He shook his head and drank from his beer. “Is it that easy?”

“What's easy about that?” a deep voice came from his right, the shadow shifting. “Gonna go after God? Make Him pay? You're the best hunter ever, Dean, but that's a big job even for you.”

“Aw, Sammy, you're too kind.” A ghost of a chuckle floated through the darkness. “May I should. Just to find an answer, you know?” He closed his eyes, but he could still see the stars inside his lids. “Maybe just to know why this all had to happen. If it could have been different somehow.”

Dean opened his eyes and looked to the right, but no one was there.

More hunts—there was never any lack of vile shit happening, and Dean knew how to handle it. More killing, monsters and humans alike, with the only criteria being if they were evil. If there was any doubt about the humans, Dean let them live; if there was no doubt, he measured justice by the barrel of his Colt 1911. A double tap and back to Baby, always moving on. Another town, another case, another diner, another bar.

Always in the back of his mind was the possibility of confronting God one day, asking Him those questions, demanding answers. One day, one day, one day...but for now, there were evils sons-of-bitches to stop and people to save. Drive, eat, kill, sleep, on and on and on.

Until one day Dean found himself standing in a psychic's parlor in Winifred, Montana. The room was decorated with the requisite colorful scarves and sparkly beads hanging everywhere, candles flickering and throwing shadows that looked like tall, wide-shouldered men. “Sonya” (“Just call me Sunny, doll.”) had contacted Dean about a spirit who refused to move on and kept interrupting her séances. That was merely annoying, but when Sunny started finding dead animals around—and in—her house, she knew things were getting worse.

“Like, busting out with the screams during my consults with the local widows and grandmas, that was bad enough. But finding raccoons and cats around my door? That's just gross. And unsanitary!” Sunny shook her head, making her three inch silver hoops dangle madly. “Can you make him go into the light?”

“I'm sure I can persuade it—him--to move forward. Do you know who it is?” Dean smoothed his hair. Sunny had a little too much make-up on—her eyes were ringed with dark shadow and heavy mascara—but she was quite attractive otherwise. Curly hair, pink lips, big tits--

Dean's musing was interrupted by a punch to his bicep. “Now, now! Psychic, remember? You're quite the looker, but I don't mix business with pleasure, and I don't hook up with itinerant man-hos.” She blinked. “No offense.”

Dean waved his hand. “None taken.” He turned away, clearing this throat and surveying the room more closely. “Now, you were saying you know who it is hanging around?”

“Yes, it's my ex-boyfriend, Wade.” Her voice quavered. “He was a really nice boyfriend. We were just starting to talk about maybe getting engaged, but he was out hunting and a bear got him.” She sniffed.

“Wow, well, uh...that's unfortunate.” Bears weren't something Dean ran into all that often, and he planned to keep it that way. “So, he doesn't want to leave you, I'm guessing. But it doesn't sound like he's actually being dangerous? He's just reluctant to move on?”

“Yeah, and I get it, but it's hard on a girl's dating life to have her dead boyfriend's spirit hanging around, you know? Things get a little...awkward when we come back to the house, if you get my drift. And then there's the whole issue with animals lying around rotting.” She shuddered, and Dean looked away from how that made her boobs shake under her white cotton peasant blouse.

“Sure, sure. Uh, just let me know where he's buried and I'll take care of it.” _And take a cold shower afterward,_ he thought. Sunny was making him acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd had company. Cleaning the pipes only did so much.

Another punch to his arm. “Ow!” He stared at her as he rubbed it.

“I'm not one hundred percent telepathic, but I pick up on waves of emotion. And all you're broadcasting right now is being horny and something about my boobs.” She frowned at him. “I'm sorry if you've been alone a while, but stop fantasizing about me!” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Dean felt genuinely chagrined. “I'm sorry. I'll deal with this today. Where he is buried?”

“Oh, he's not buried. He was cremated. He was, um, kinda tore up.”

Now Dean knew he _really_ didn't want to run across a bear. “Okay then—he must be tied to something that you still have. Can you think of anything that would mean a lot to him? Probably something sentimental?”

She drifted around the room, looking at the candles and bric-a-brac, humming a little as she went. Dean stood patiently, knowing he had nothing to contribute to the search.

_“Okay, let's go through these before we shake the rest of the room down. Maybe we've already hit pay dirt.”_

A small pile of personal items on Kevin's bed.

Dean shook his head, tried to push aside the memory.

_“Why don't we just torch the whole pile--”_

_Wind swirled around them, setting all the papers to fluttering madly, along with Sam's hair. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and there was the sharp tang of ozone._

Dean rubbed his face, cursing silently. Why the flashback all of the sudden now?

Ozone. The air smelt of ozone. _This_ air.

“Sunny! He's coming!” 

She yelped as Dean grabbed her, sheltering her against the wall. Wade appeared, shimmering and angry. He seemed intact, but when he moved, Dean could see the claw marks the bear had made. It wasn't pretty.

“Sunny, he looks pretty pissed. I thought he wasn't acting out that much?” Dean tried to protect her a much as he could with his body.

“He hasn't been! Even the dead animals are more like presents, like the way a cat does. I don't know why he's being so aggressive now.” She looked around, confused.

Dean thought fast about what she'd said so far. “You said something about dates. Have you been bringing dates home?”

“No, it didn't seem like a good idea when I don't know if Wade was going to show up or I'd find a 'present' at the door.”

“Sunny, I think Wade is reacting to me; he thinks I'm your date or new boyfriend. Things are going to heat up here if you can't figure out what's anchoring him so we can get rid of him!”

Wade rushed them and disappeared. Sunny panted, her eyes wide with fear. “I don't know! I—I can't think!”

Dean resisted the impulse to shake her. “Something personal!” He replayed the ghost's advance in his head—Wade hadn't been reaching toward Sunny, but...the wooden dresser behind her. “Something he gave you maybe? Stored in there?”

“Oh! I know!” She rushed over to the dresser—Dean figured it held extra candles, her Tarot decks, and so on. She pulled open a drawer and rummaged through it. “Here!” She turned back to Dean, something sparkly on her palm. “It's a promise ring. He gave it to me a year before he was killed, said when we were both ready he'd exchange it for an engagement ring.”

Dean grabbed the ring and ran into the kitchen. A quick look at the stove and he smiled—gas. He knocked the burner ring off and lit the burner, throwing the ring into the middle of it while he turned up the gas. “Sunny! Salt!” Sunny produced a canister of salt from a cabinet, and he poured a hasty ring of it around them as well as throwing a dash into the burner.

Wade reappeared, gnashing his teeth and waving his claw-scored arms. Sunny started to cry, and Dean held her close. “It's okay--when the ring melts, he'll move on. Hang in there.” Sunny's bosom pressed against his chest, and damn did it feel good, soft yet firm, plump...

A sudden sharp pain in his foot interrupted Dean's daze. Sunny was glaring up at him, bosom still heaving, and he realized she'd stomped on his foot. “Sorry...sorry...”

“Really, Dean! We're just sending my boyfriend into the big beyond, and you're fixated on my boobs?”

He smiled sheepishly at her. “Well, they are pretty righteous boobs.”

Her frown softened into a grin. “Well, thank you. Now, are we all set with Wade?”

Dean looked around. No Wade to be seen. He double-checked with his EMF reader: nothing. “Yep, you're good to go here.” He stepped out of the salt circle.

Sunny walked around in the salon, and Dean followed her. She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yes, I can feel he's gone. Thank you.” She came up to Dean and kissed his cheek.

“That's my job.” Dean smiled at her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so open to someone, like the warmth of her personality had thawed out some of the ice growing in his soul. His smile faded when he thought of the other people who'd mattered to him, and their fates. Maybe ice was better. Safer.

Sunny stopped Dean as he began to move to the door. “Wait. Let me—I'll do a reading for you. On the house, you know, as a thank you.” Dean started to demur, but she was already pushing him into a chair at the round table in the center of the room, then sitting down across from him. She reached across the purple velvet tablecloth, taking one of his hands in her soft white ones and closed her eyes.

Dean had seen enough that he didn't doubt she had some ability, but he didn't feel there was anything she could tell him. Pretty much except for hunting, his life was over. It was just a matter of racking up the kills until something got him, and he didn't really need to know when and what that would be.

“You have a mission,” she said calmly, eyes still closed. “An incredible task. But you don't know if you can do it. Don't really know _how_ to do it. You just—you just need to try. You'll figure it out as you go. You're capable of more than you think.” She sat silent for a moment; Dean was just about to stand up when she spoke again. “Rowena. You need to find Rowena. She'll help you. She has the power.”

Dean stared at her, confused. An incredible task—did she mean his thoughts about confronting God? And who the hell was Rowena?

Sunny opened her eyes, her face now cheerful and smiling. “How was that? Did you learn anything?”

Dean stood, soothing down his jeans. “Yeah, uh...that was real interesting. I guess I better find this Rowena chick.”

She clapped her hands. “Yay! I'm so glad it helped.” She gave Dean a quick hug. “Good luck!”

“Thanks.” Dean waved and departed, his mind spinning a bit with the information from Sunny's reading. Dropping into the driver's seat, he checked his messages to get an idea of where to head next. A new hunt awaited—and, somewhere, so did the mysterious Rowena.

The hunting continued, but in the downtimes, Dean investigated who this Rowena was. He found out fairly quickly that she was a powerful witch, which jived with Sunny's reading. From what he could gather, she was mostly concerned about herself. He needed to think about what it was that he really wanted to accomplish, and then figure out how to get her interested in helping him.

During a hunt in Arizona, he ran across a low-level demon who, once he was tied up inside a devil's trap, was only too happy to run his mouth; he spewed his disgruntlement about life as a demon, the power structure in Hell, and what a pain in the ass Crowley was. Dean hadn't seen Crowley since Kevin was killed; apparently once the Prophet and the former Boy King were iced, Crowley had had no further need or interest in Dean. Which was fine with him, life was arduous enough without the former Fergus MacLeod stirring things up.

Dean, somewhat bored as the demon babbled on, nonetheless kept half an ear tuned to the monologue. There'd been just enough tidbits of info in the demon's prattling to keep him alive for the next hour or so. Dean had a couple of beers handy and the latest issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_ , so he amused himself while the demon whined and complained, Dean sifting out the genuine information from the dross.

“It was so not fair! I couldn't help it if the place was locked up with devil's traps and protection sigils! I tried to explain it to Crowley, but he was busy fighting with Rowena--”

Dean whipped his head around. “What?”

“Crowley, he was--”

“No, the other one. Rowena? What do you know about Rowena?” Dean focused completely on the demon now, his magazine forgotten on the table.

“Her? She's a royal bitch! Picky as shit about everything, turn you into a toad as soon as look at you. She's topside mostly, but sometimes she comes down to see Crowley and they always end up arguing.” The demon scoffed.

“What does she talk to Crowley about? What do they have in common?” Dean pressed.

The demon stared at him. “What do they have in common? They're--”

“Shut your trap, you incompetent arse.” Crowley stood in the hotel room, looking immaculate in his dark suit and carefully trimmed beard. “Mind your manners about your betters, or I'm sure we can find an even more tedious job for you. Or perhaps serve you to Juliet for dinner.” The demon's mouth snapped shut.

Crowley came over to the table and sat down, brushing off the table before resting his arm on it. “Hello, Dean. Long time no see.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Can't say I missed you, but now that you're here, I have to wonder why.”

“Ah, Dean. Always with the wondering. Let's just say I've been a tad busy, and haven't had time to muddle about with you. My condolences, however, on the demise of your moose.”

The casual reference to Sam made Dean grit his teeth. “What do you want? Spit it out and then get lost.”

“Dean! So inhospitable!” Crowley tsked. “I happened to hear my name mentioned, and the name of a sometime associate, and my curiosity was piqued.”

“So Rowena is an associate?” Dean leaned forward.

“At times. At other times she can be something of a nuisance, but she can be quite useful.”

“How do you know her? Is she a demon?”

Crowley laughed. “No, she is a witch. Very old, moderately powerful. I've known her...a long time.” A smile played about his mouth.

This was great information for Dean, but he kept his demeanor casual. “So how do you know her then? Pick her up in some hellhole or other?”

Crowley looked offended, and the captive demon burst out laughing. “It's nothing like that!” He snickered. “She's his _mother!_ ”

Dean stared at Crowley in shock. The King of Hell got up from the table, his face red, and gestured to the demon. The demon began to gasp, and first wisps, then clouds, of dark smoke issued from his mouth, spinning around the room before flattening itself to squeeze under the door and exit. The body, now vacated by its unholy inhabitant, sagged lifelessly in the ropes that bound it to the chair.

“Your mother?” Dean exclaimed, more than a little amused. “I figured you were spawned from a hyena and a toad.”

“Yes, she is my mother in the titular sense. The woman's veins are filled with venom and ice. She quasi-raised me before running off when I was not even yet full-grown, so I don't regard her in that sanctified manner so many men use to look at their mothers. However, she does have some power and can be useful at times, so we occasionally meet about specific common goals.” Crowley's voice was stiff and huffy.

Dean resolved to ponder the whole thing more later, but for now, he wanted an introduction. “I want to meet her.”

“Do you now? Well, that's rather intriguing.” Crowley hummed a moment. “I could arrange that. It might be rather amusing to see her try her wiles on you and vice versa. Yes, I think that sounds rather fun.”

Dean had met all kinds of witches in his day. Earth-mother types, all fringed clothes, chunky pottery, and stinky incense; average suburban soccer moms, wearing blazers and baking Caseroles as they brewed potions; and the classic long hair/black dress/fifteen cats, with candles on the mantelpiece over the cauldron hanging from a tripod.

Rowena...was something else altogether. 

She was petite, scarcely coming up to his shoulder, with long, curly red hair and porcelain skin. She had a narrow face with a pointed chin, vivid scarlet lips, and heavily mascaraed eyes that snapped with intelligence and spirit. Her taste in clothes ran to long gowns made of lace or velvet in rich colors that hugged her curves. She was glamorous and formidable, dainty and scary.

Dean had to kind of admire her style.

“Well, now, aren't you a strapping lad,” she purred, running a hand up his arm and squeezing his bicep.

Okay, that felt a little creepy. Dean stepped back and gestured to a chair, sitting himself across from her. He hadn't felt nervous around anyone in a long time, but she made him uncomfortable. 

“So what can I do for ye, laddie?” Rowena smoothed her skirt over her knees after she sat. “I don't imagine you often have much need of someone like me now, so this must be something important.” She gave him a small, arch smile.

“I have something I want to do, something I could use your help with.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It's more magic that I usually do on my own.”

“Oh, is that the case? Well, I can do a lot of things, I can. What is it you'd like to be doing? Find true love? Become unimaginably wealthy?” Rowena continued to regard him primly.

“First, I want to summon God and trap him, like in a devil's trap.”

Dean was gratified to see the slightest widening of her eyes. “Gracious. And second? I assume there's a second, if there was a first?”

“I want to end this world as we know it. I want to try resetting it in a new reality.”

This time she stared at him openly, jaw slightly agape.

“Well, Dean, you certainly think big.” She winked at him. “I like that in a man.” She tapped on her front teeth with one nail, thinking quietly. “Go ahead, I'm listening.”

He laid it all out for her; how it started, what he'd thought when, what he hoped to do. There was no point prevaricating; if he was going to get the help from her that he needed, she had to know the score.

Rowena listened, head cocked, hands folded in her lap. She shook her head at first. She laughed at his ideas. She poked holes in his theories. And when Dean was done speaking, she nodded and said, “We can at least do most of what you want. What the end result will be, I canna guarantee, but at least we shall all go out with a bang.”

Dean stopped the pacing he'd started as he explained his goal to her and asked, “Why are you considering this? If it goes as planned, we might not all even exist anymore. Why are you not bargaining with me? What are you hoping to get out of this? I can't believe you're that altruistic in nature.”

“Altruism is something I never dabble in,” she said archly. “If the plan doesn't succeed, then nonetheless I shall be known as the witch who trapped God, and word of my power will spread everywhere, even to the stupid cows of the Great Coven. That right there is a win by me.” She paused, examining her perfectly painted fingernails. “If it succeeds—well, even I have a heart's desire, and there's no chance of me getting it in this world. Why not the next?” A little laugh escaped those crimson lips. “I'm game.”

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/110322/110322_original.jpg)

Even with Rowena as his partner and having a plan to work by, it took a long time for Dean to prepare. There were arcane ingredients to be searched for and obtained, per Rowena's orders. Hours were spent researching as both he and Rowena studied the exact symbols and sigils that would be needed. Incantations were found, tested, discarded, distilled. All the while, Dean still carried on hunting, even if it added lengthy delays to the preparations. He was not going to let people die unnecessarily while he pursued his plan—it was, after all, the family business.

Despite all the hours that research required and the delays caused by hunting, there came the day where Dean and Rowena looked at each other and nodded. They were ready. Everything to put Dean's plan into motion was assembled and ready under the roof of the bunker.

Everything except for one last object.

“As far as I can tell, the last one to have it was Fergus.” Rowena's mouth pursed.

“Fergus? Oh, Crowley? Well, can't you just go and get it from him? He's your son, after all.” Dean took a pull on his freshly-opened beer. He'd been out hunting for a month, and was appreciating being off his feet for the first time in days.

Rowena fastened him with a basilisk stare. “Our relationship does not run with that kind of...harmony. You'd have better luck getting him to divulge the location than I.”

Dean sighed. “You're just saying that so you don't have to kiss up to him.”

She sniffed. “You're the one he has a man-crush on. Maybe you should use your masculine charms and weasel it out of him.”

Dean shuddered at the image her words conveyed. “Whatever. Fine. I'll suggest we go out for a drink.”

He did suggest a drink to Crowley, and the King of Hell acceded. They ended up at a karaoke Western bar that made Dean roll his eyes with its corniness, but it stocked decent enough whiskey. Dean, while a pretty consistent drinker, hadn't really tied one on in months, and they ended up challenging each other to warble one cheesy song after another, the cheese quotient going up as the whiskey went down. Dean stuck with his favorite classic rock numbers, while Crowley was more partial to power ballads.

During a lull, Crowley ordered a couple of fresh beers, some fried pickles, and hot wings. Turning to Dean again, he slurred, “Okay, bucko. Out with it.”

Solidly drunk, Dean stared at Crowley uncomprehendingly. “Wha'?”

Crowley waggled a couple of fingers between he and Dean. “This. Don't get me wrong—I'm having a right old time, but I know when I'm being wooed.”

“Wooed!” Dean exclaimed. “There is no wooing going on here!” He hastily finished off his beer, gratefully grabbing the fresh one from the waitress.

The food arrived, and Crowley split the pickles and wings between them. Speech ceased as they attacked the wings, Dean gesturing for more whiskey. When only bare gray bones and a couple of abandoned pickles remained, Dean sighed and used one of the wet towelettes provided to clean sticky, spicy wing sauce off his fingers. Crowley followed suit.

The introduction of food to his system cleared Dean's head somewhat, and he knew he'd better make his pitch. “Crowley, I--”

“I knew it!” The King crowed. “You want something. This _was_ wooing after all!”

“Fine, fine! It was wooing!” Dean closed his eyes and mentally kicked himself for saying that. “I've been looking for something, and I think you were the last person to see it. I need it. I need it very badly.”

“Whatever. What is it?” Crowley sat back and burped loudly.

“The First Blade.”

Crowley stared at Dean. “How do you even know what it is? What the fuck do you want that for?”

Dean hesitated, pondering whether to bluff or not, then decided to come clean. “I want to have a little face-to-face chat with God, and just maybe...hit the reset button on the world.”

Crowley stared at him, for once shocked into silence. Dean grinned at his discomfiture. Finally the King spoke. “Winchester...never let it be said that you think small. I don't know if that's a doable plan, but I admire you for thinking it up.” He waved his hand in the air to summon the waitress. “Another pitcher here! And more fried pickles!”


	4. Chapter 4

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/109761/109761_original.jpg)

Dean stood in the bunker's armory of magical supplies, studying the bottles and boxes neatly labeled on the shelves. As he selected the materials he needed, he packed them into a padded box, stopping to check each one off the list he'd taped up. It would suck to be short some crucial ingredient during the spell.

“Dean.”

He whirled around, heart in his throat. “Holy shit, Cas, stop sneaking up on me like that!”

“I apologize, Dean. I did not mean to startle you.”

Dean closed the lid of the packing box and exited the room, Castiel following behind him. They walked to the kitchen, where Dean got himself a beer and sat down. “Beer's cold, or there's coffee you can reheat,” Dean said with grudging hospitality.

“I do not seek refreshment, but thank you.” Castiel sat down. “I am here to discuss something very important with you.”

“Mmhmm.” Dean popped the cap off his beer and took a long swallow. “Man, that hits the spot. What's so important? Got a hunt?”

“No. A very powerful magical object has changed hands, and I have been tasked with looking into it.”

“Sounds serious. What is it?”

“The First Blade.”

Dean stared innocently at Castiel. “The First Blade? What's that?”

Castiel shook his head. “Dean, please do not lie to me. I know that you are aware of what this item is. In fact, you very likely know where it is right now.”

“What—You don't--” Dean sputtered in fake indignation before breaking out laughing. “Yeah, fuck it. I know what it is, but I don't know where it is. That's the truth.”

Castiel leaned forward. “Dean, it's of paramount importance that we find it and lock it away again. The power in it—the danger can't be overstated.”

Dean drank from his beer before replying. “Cas, I understand your concern. Really I do. But this has nothing to do with you, so butt out.”

Castiel frowned. “I cannot 'butt out' as you put it. This is the very blade that Cain used to slay his brother Abel. It has been used in countless killings and spells, all of which have increased its power. For it to be out in the world, un-monitored, is terribly dangerous.”

“What do you think whoever has it wants with it? Kill some monsters?” Dean hoped his voice sounded casual. Castiel looked at him sharply.

“I believe you know more than you'd like me to think, Dean. Perhaps the question should be, what do _you_ intend to do with it?”

Dean looked at him wide-eyed and said with deliberation, “I. Don't. Have. It.”

“But you know who does, or where it is. Tell me, Dean, I must know. It is my mission to locate it.”

Dean got up and went over to the sink, rinsing out his bottle. “I said, I don't know where it is.” He hoped repeating it would help it sound more like the truth.

Castiel got up and moved right behind him. “But you know who has it. I have learned to read between your sentences, Dean.”

“Get off my ass, Angel Boy, I got nothing more to say to you.” Dean felt his humor fading and his annoyance rising.

Castiel was almost nose-to-nose with Dean, his eyes burning blue. “Dean, I have done everything for you--”

“Bullshit! For everything you did do, there's what you didn't do! Or where you double-crossed us! Or just fucking _disappeared!_ Don't tell me I owe you shit! Now get out of my face!” Dean pushed Castiel away and stormed out of the kitchen to his room. Of course, as soon as he got there, Castiel appeared.

“Dean--”

Dean rummaged in his closet. “Castiel, get the fuck out of my room. Get the fuck out of the bunker. I'm warning you.”

“No, Dean--” Castiel began, but the anger that had been brewing since Sam's death finally boiled over, and Dean turned around and began to pummel Castiel.

The angel was powerful, but Dean's attack caught him off guard, with several hooks and jabs landing on Castiel's face before he put any sort of defense. He mostly tried to fend off Dean's blows, but threw a few punches of his own as he tried to offset Dean's rage.

“Dean! Stop! We need to talk--”

“I got nothing more to say to you! You didn't do shit when Kevin died, when Sam died, after the way he sacrificed himself for you and the whole band of your cohorts! You're not angels, you're a bunch of feathered dicks! I'm done with all of you!”

Instead of abating with the catharsis of the fight, Dean felt his anger swelling, bloated by the physical outpouring of fury on Castiel. He almost couldn't even see the angel now; he could only feel Castiel's flesh beneath his fists, see the smears of red standing out sharply. Every resistant move Castiel made angered Dean more, made him colder and more implacable.

“Dean, stop...”

Castiel's words died in a gasp as Dean's angel blade pierced him below his sternum and thrust upwards. Dean grimaced with the force of his push, eyes squinting and then closing tightly as Castiel's grace exploded from his body in blue-white brilliance. Even through his eyelids, Dean could sense the light, and when the light faded, he opened his eyes. Castiel's gaze was fixed and unfocused, his vessel limp and uninhabited.

Dean lay Castiel on the floor, covering him with a blanket, angel blade and all. His eyes prickled and he blinked hard; for all the difficulties they'd had with the angel, there had been times he'd meant a lot to the Winchesters.

“I'm sorry. I didn't plan for this to happen. Maybe...maybe this will be one of the things that ends better next time,” Dean told the body.

Driving down the highway, Dean distracted himself by recalling how nonplussed Crowley had been when they'd discussed the First Blade at the karaoke bar. First he'd boggled at Dean, then he'd roared with laughter at Dean's hubris. Finally he'd agreed to let Dean have the Blade, convinced that his plan would come to naught anyway. Dean promised to return it to Crowley in the event that everything was a wash, but deep inside, that was not the eventuality Dean anticipated.

He slowed the Impala, turning off from the highway into the empty parking lot of a Biggerson's. He'd decided not to do the ritual at the bunker itself, preferring to be away from everything—both good and bad—that the bunker signified and instead use a neutral location.

It was the work of a few moments to jimmy the locks and neutralize the alarm. It took a few trips to Baby and back to bring in the bags and boxes of supplies. Then he pushed the tables and chairs aside, creating a large open space in the middle of the floor. The spray paint came out, and the floors and windows were painted with sigils and wards. Dean and Rowena had adapted a devil's trap to keep God from vanishing, so Dean painted that too, murmuring the incantations Rowena configured for the trap to hold. He could see the trap's lines glowing briefly as he worked; it reassured him that everything was working properly.

“Nicely done,” said an alto voice, and Dean turned to see Rowena looking it all over, arms crossed elegantly. Her long red hair curled its way down to her waist, and deep blue of her velvet gown shimmered from midnight to sapphire as she moved. “If this all falls through, you could have a nice criminal career as a graffiti artist.”

“If this all falls through, my criminal career with be the least of my worries,” Dean retorted. Having stopped working when she appeared, Dean realized he was hungry. “I'm going to make a sandwich, then we can get this show on the road.”

“Really? Eating at a time like this?”

Dean shrugged. “This is a lot of work, and who knows what to expect—better off taking the time to refuel first than fight and lose because of being hungry.” He went into the kitchen and began to assemble sandwich materials.

Rowena trailed after him. “Make mine without mayo. And extra horseradish.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Their snack was actually quite enjoyable. The food was fresh, there was cold beer in a walk-in, and maybe it was their imminent possible destruction, but Dean found himself savoring his sandwich and beer. Rowena was full of amusing anecdotes, even if he had to steer her away from some topics that were not conducive to eating. For fifteen or twenty minutes, they put aside the magnitude of what they were about to do and just enjoyed their little picnic.

Once they were done, they both fell quiet as they finished the last preparations. “Now the trap is ready, so I will do the summoning spell and bring God here. Then it will be up to you to trigger the rest. I'll be standing by, ready to give you the Blade. All we need to do now is paint the sigils on you.” Rowena ticked things off.

Dean nodded. “Do you have the, uh...”

“Such delicate sensibilities for a big strong hunter! Yes, the fawn's blood, mixed with the other ingredients—right here.” She handed him a jar filled with a dark red substance that seemed to squirm as Dean took it in hand. He looked at it and felt faintly ill. That was going to be painted onto him?

Rowena huffed. “Oh goodness, give it here.” She took the jar back and pulled a small brush out. “Off with your shirt now.”

The blood mixture felt warm, even though it had been harvested a couple of days ago, and Dean couldn't help feeling like it was indeed squirming on his skin. He refused to look at it, keeping his eyes averted while Rowena painted on him. Once she was done, he waited ten minutes and then put his shirt back on. The squirmy feeling stopped, but now he felt a heat seeping through his body, a vague feeling of warmth and power. 

“There we are. Now this will protect you from the worst injuries, but not make you invincible, so be careful.” She dipped her thumb in a clear, oily substance and wrote on his forehead.

“I'll start the brazier, you go stand over there.” Rowena nodded to the trap. Dean moved over, still absorbed in the sensations the sigils created in him, the material of his shirt just catching on the still-damp parts.

In position, he looked over at Rowena and said, “Hey, let me have a moment before we light the fuse?”

She sighed, but nodded. “I'll just go to the little witch's room and powder my nose.” She walked off down the hallway, waving her fingers to Dean.

“You okay, big brother? Everything all right?” Sam's soft, deep voice came from behind Dean. He turned his head just enough to catch the tall shadow out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah. No. I guess. I mean,” Dean laughed a little tensely. “How do you get ready to end the world as you know it?”

“It's a big job. Proud of you, though. You figured it all out.”

“Thanks, Sammy. I just want to—to try and make it better.” Dean coughed. “Missed you for so long, Sam. One way or another, I hope I'll get to see you afterwards.”

“I'm always with you, Dean, whether you can see me or not.”

Dean's eyes filled. “Love you, little brother.”

He turned, but as always the shadow was gone.

Rowena returned and took up her position behind the brazier. “Are you ready now, Winchester?”

Dean looked around again, but no shadows remained. He turned back to Rowena and gave her a thumb's up. “Let's hit it.”

Rowena lit a charcoal briquet, then took tongs and placed the burning charcoal in an open brazier. She opened several little bottles, measuring and mixing various powders and plants in a large shallow brass bowl that was etched in ancient writing. She swirled the brass bowl and uttered words in a language Dean had never heard before. He saw the spell ingredients coalesce into a powdery slurry that flared into a golden glow. A wine-colored smoke rose from the bowl to eddy through the room in dense tendrils, clouding the air, trickling down Dean's back and making the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms rise. 

The room cooled as the smoke circulated, and Dean felt his skin pebble, a shiver than made him acutely aware of the pull of his shirt's fabric against the still-damp markings on his skin. He glanced around nervously; he didn't want to miss a thing, needed to be ready, on guard. He wasn't sure what would happen, but he had to be ready to meet anything. The stakes were way too high to blow it.

Rowena raised her voice, chanting forcefully, hands raised and spread, compelling the flames now burning in the bowl to rise and rise and rise some more. Flickering light danced around the room, casting eerie shadows on the dark walls. He could see that Rowena was trembling now, struggling to handle the power she was incubating.

A brilliant light suffused the room. Rowena cried out and covered her face, while Dean threw his arm over his closed eyes; yet still he could sense the light. It had the bluish quality of angel grace, cold but beautiful. When it faded, Dean cautiously lowered his arm and opened his eyes.

A dozen angels were positioned around the room, standing quietly with their arms down at their sides. Dean's heart sank a little—he'd hoped for only a couple to respond, but he'd just have to deal with it. Before he could worry much more about it, someone else appeared in the center of the room.

Chuck.

Chuck Shurley, with his big blue lemur eyes. Chuck, with his curly brown hair and beard. Chuck, dressed in his habitual dark red hoodie over blue jeans. He gave his usual deprecating grin and raised his hand in a little wave, saying, “Come here, Dean.”

Dean stared in shock. He was too dumbfounded to speak. What was Chuck doing here? Had the spell backfired?

“Dean, you really didn't know? Didn't you wonder what happened, where I disappeared to after Stull?” Chuck shook his head. “I wanted to say something before I left, but...well, there's never enough time, you know?”

Words finally made their way from Dean's numb brain. “You're God? Really?”

Chuck looked momentarily bashful. “That's me. I know I've been incommunicado for a while, but...you rang and here I am.” He held his arms out. “Come here, Dean.”

Dean went to him, accepted the hug, gave a small hug in return. He couldn't help feeling momentarily warm and cared for. Sadly, he knew it wouldn't last, and the warmth of the hug didn't negate why he was there.

Chuck pushed Dean to arms-length, looking at him paternally. “Dean, I can't say I'm pleased that you felt you needed to summon me like this, but now that I'm here—what's going on?”

Dean stepped back, clearing his throat; now that the moment was at hand, he choked up a little. “I have a question.”

Chuck chuckled. “Doesn't everyone? Let's see...what is the meaning of life? Or maybe, why are you here?” His face grew solemn. “Is it about Sam? I can't bring him back, Dean. I mean, I _can,_...but I won't.” His voice softened. “I'm sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “It's not about Sam. Well, it sort of is, but not directly. I've been hunting a long time now, Chuck, and I have to wonder—Is this it? Is this how it goes? Putting down one monster at a time. Finding out that humans are no better sometimes, and putting them down too.” He sighed. “I just...I want to know. I need to know.”

Chuck tsked and began to amble around, poking at shelves, looking out the window. “Dean, I can't say I didn't wish things were better myself. Sometimes there's a plan--in this case, one that was made millions of years ago--but along the way, there are little...missteps. Little things that change or shift or go awry unnoticed. The incremental build-up eventually creates an outcome that was...not as we could have wished.” He barked a short laugh. “Basically, it's like cancer. Cells copy themselves over and over, but eventually they mutate and then the mutations are copied, and...cancer.” He shook his head ruefully. “That was an idea that didn't pan out.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, heedless of the chaos it left behind. “What are you saying here, Chuck? That everything we know as our reality is a cosmic oops? Or cancer?”

“That's putting it a little simplistically, but essentially it's not incorrect.” Chuck leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He looked relaxed and casual while angels stood stolidly on either side of him like statues. Dean didn't even see them blinking.

Dean looked over at Rowena, also standing silent and still during this dialogue. She gave him a tiny nod. He nodded back and returned his attention to Chuck.

“I have a hard time accepting that. A really hard time. How much have we lost because of those 'tiny mistakes'? Where could we be right now that we aren't?” His voice roughened, and he ticked the names of the fallen off on his fingers. “How many of mine died for it all, Chuck? My mother. My father. Kevin. Bobby. Ellen. Jo. Pamela. Charlie. Pastor Jim. Caleb. So many other hunters. So many innocents.” Dean had to catch a breath before he could continue. “My _brother._ All because you couldn't stick to the plan? Keep things on track? Control the mutations?”

Chuck drew himself up, his face stern. “That's enough, Dean. I've always been fond of you Winchesters, but at some point, you need to remember who's in charge.”

Dean advanced on him. “And who is that? You? Really?” He glared at Chuck, reaching one hand behind himself. An angel blade smacked into his hand and he gripped it reflexively, smiling grimly. Rowena's throw had been true.

Immediately the angels converged on Dean, shielding Chuck behind their bodies. Dean couldn't even think; all he could do was react, fighting with reflexes that he'd spent his entire life honing. His hands knew what to do, his body bending and turning as he worked his blade and his feet kicked. He could hear Rowena speaking, angels disappearing at her words, and knew she was picking them off while he slashed and stabbed and blocked. He could feel that he was wounded, but the protection spell Rowena had thrown over him beforehand held, and his wounds were not serious and didn't impair him.

Finally it was silent, the room full of dead angels with scorched wing prints burnt across the walls and floor. Dean was bleeding and panting, tired and sore, but he was the victor. He wiped his silver angel blade on the topmost body before tossing it away and turning to face Chuck.

“This is abominable, Dean, even for you.” Chuck's eyes were blue ice, his voice cold. “You've gone too far.”

“No, this is righting the scales. What's abominable is the past few hundred years. Even if you shorten it to my lifetime, it's been too long. There's been too much sacrifice.”

“I'm too angry to talk to you about this anymore, Dean. We'll discuss this another time.” Chuck crossed his arms and stood still. He looked surprised all of a sudden, and Dean smiled. “What have you done?” Chuck hissed.

“Got a little something to keep you from winking out. You're stuck for the moment.” Dean waved his hand. “Some sigils, some runes, some edits to the line-work, an incantation or two, and it's a...a God-trap, I guess you could call it.”

Chuck threw his weight around, but remained firmly in the trap. Dean walked around him, humming tunelessly. A shadow in the corner of the room shook with intangible laughter.

“What do you want? I already said that I won't bring Sam back.” Chuck glowered in Dean's direction.

“I figured as much. Really? I'm not sure what I want. What are my options?” asked Dean casually, stepping over a dead angel's limp leg.

Chuck scowled. “Fuck you, Winchester. You are abusing my good nature.”

“That's it!” cried Dean, snapping his fingers. “Nature! Human nature. You nailed it--that's the crux of the issue.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean stopped his pacing and faced Chuck. “It's all about human nature. What people are and what they are not. What ends up happening because of the gap between those two ends. Do you understand what I mean?”

Chuck spread his hands. “Just tell me what you want, Dean.”

Dean approached the trap, closing the space between him and Chuck to a couple of inches. “I want a do-over.”

_”What?”_

“A do-over. Like, a re-do, but on a cosmic scale.”

Rowena cleared her throat delicately, and Dean looked over at her. She raised her eyebrows in askance, flicking her eyes down to the table and back to him. He nodded and held up his hand. She reached under a cloth next to her brass bowl and drew something out, tossing it to him.

Dean caught it neatly. “Thanks. You better go now.”

She nodded and said, “Good luck, Dean. I guess I'll know if it worked, yes?”

“Yeah. Hey, Rowena?” She wrapped a lace shawl around her shoulders before looking back at him. “I couldn't have done this without you. Thank you.” Rowena nodded and smiled at him before vanishing. 

Dean turned to Chuck and hefted the object Rowena had thrown him. “Recognize this?”

Bone, yellowed and aged, long and slightly curved at the end. Jagged, broken teeth ran along one side. Chuck drew his breath in sharply. “Where did you find that?”

“Does it matter? I have it now. Combined with those runes and Rowena's incantations, I anticipate...calamitous consequences.” He felt strangely light and carefree, now that the final moment had arrived. He had nothing left to lose. Whether or not he had anything to gain remained to be seen.

“Not without the Enochian sigils. You need those to complete the magic.” Chuck crossed his arms and looked defiant.

“These sigils, Chuck?” Dean ripped his shirt open, pulling the fabric away from his sticky skin to reveal the signs painted on his torso; dark red, sticky paint in whorls and angles all over Dean's torso.

Chuck paled. “That is ancient magic. How did--”

Dean suddenly lost his temper and yelled, “It doesn't matter _how_ I did it! Screw how!” He moved a little closer to Chuck. “What are you going to tell me now, Chuck? How everything is going to be okay? How there's a happy ending to this story?”

Chuck was silent. Dean shook his head and said roughly, “It doesn't matter. There's nothing you can say anymore. The only thing that matters is, this time? Get it right. Do you hear me? Please--get it right.”

In vain Chuck reached out his arm, but he couldn't reach through the barrier of the trap. Dean shook his head, and said one last time, more softly, “Get it right this time, for everyone.”

He positioned the First Blade over his chest and drove it in with all of his strength. It pierced his skin and plunged into his heart, his blood spurting out around it to spatter on the floor. The sigils on Dean's body flared into jagged brilliance that shot out from him, illuminating the room in achingly clear, intense light. 

The pain was delayed at first; his body was unable to recognize the damage done to it, but it grew stronger every second; it was more pain than he'd ever felt before in all his history of injuries and near-death experiences. He tried to breathe, to gasp in some air, unsure if he was going to be able to endure it or would in fact die before the spell took hold. He closed his eyes against the searing light filling the room, catching one split-second glimpse of Chuck with his hands raised and mouth open. Dean couldn't tell if his reaction was one of pain or power.

Then the brilliance and pain overcame everything, and the world ended.

Mary stirred as the faint sounds of a baby fussing infiltrated her sleep. She felt so relaxed, so comfortable here in the bed she shared with John, but when she looked over, John wasn't there. “Okay,” she mumbled, and pulled herself up. Pausing in the hallway landing, she heard the television playing softly and saw the bluish light of the screen. “Fell asleep in front of _Knight Rider_ again,” she murmured. “Fine, I got this.”

Continuing down the hall, she stopped and entered the nursery. It was a bright, cheerful room; they didn't have a lot of money for decorating, but Mary enjoyed scouting out thrift shops and yard sales, and had found little things to add a whimsical touch to a baby's room.

Her ready enjoyment of the room was interrupted by seeing a tall, dark figure standing next to baby Sammy's crib. For a long moment, her heart stopped and fear flooded through her veins like ice-water in her blood, freezing her in the doorway.

_No! Sammy!_

She struggled to breathe, to speak, and finally the words got through her constricted throat. “Stop! What are you doing?”

The figure turned, a darker black in the shadows. It stepped forward into the light of the angel nightlight on the dresser and Mary's breathing relaxed.

“It's just me, babe,” said John, reaching out to her. “Hey, it's okay. Just me.” 

Mary gasped and threw herself into his arms, which wrapped around her, reassuring her with their strength and warmth. “I don't know what I was thinking. I must have been dreaming, and then I couldn't see you in the dark.”

John kissed her hair and rubbed her back. “Shh, I got you now. I was dozing downstairs and I heard Sammy so I thought I'd check on him.” He drew them closer to the crib, and Mary saw their baby smiling at them, cooing and waving his little hands. “John chuckled. “Look at the size of those paws. He's going to be a big guy.”

Mary smiled and ran a finger over one of the baby's hands, then brushed his dark hair from his forehead. “But smart. Look at the brow, those eyes. He's going to be brilliant.”

“Mommy? Daddy?” A toddler's voice spoke out from the doorway. “Is everything okay? Is Sammy all right?”

Dean, all golden silky hair and big green eyes, ran to Mary and John. She knelt down and caught him in a big hug while John smoothed his hair. “Yes, baby, he's fine.”

Dean drew himself up and crossed his arms. “ _Not_ a baby! I'm the big brother!” He went up to the crib and stuck his hand through, petting Sam's fleece sleeper. “I'm gonna teach him everything, and take care of him. That's what big brothers do.”

Mary smiled even as tears pricked her eyes. Her beautiful boys.

Dean looked back up at her. “Everything's really okay, Mommy? Daddy?”

Mary looked around the nursery. Everything she loved was here; her stalwart, tender husband, her gorgeous, gifted boys, all safe in their cozy little house. She nodded, unable to speak.

“Yeah, buddy. Everything is perfect.” John's voice rumbled softly, fingers running through Dean's hair.

Dean smiled, like sunshine in the night. “Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 [spn_j2_bigbang](spn_j2_bigbang.livejournal.com).
> 
> Please be sure to let [red_b_rackham](red_b_rackham.livejournal.com) how much you enjoy the art! She did a beautiful job conveying the emotions and atmosphere of this story, as well as being both helpful and enthusiastic about the story itself. Thank you so much, it was a pleasure to work with you, and I'd do it again anytime!!!
> 
> As always, no story of mine is complete without the input, support, and superlative beta skills of[theatregirl7299](theatregirl7299.livejournal.com). You helped me with so many tricky moments, as well as convincing me that I could do this in the first place. Thank you a million!
> 
> And finally, thank you to our patroness, the inestimable [wendy](wendy.livejournal.com), who keeps this challenge open for us and applauds our efforts like a proud mama :-) HUGS to you, lady!!!


End file.
